09-FURDRICK FIXIT'S SECRET

FURDRICK FIXIT'S SECRET At two o'clock in the morning, the phone rang. I was still half asleep. "Stilson, speaking, Geronimouse Stilson," I managed to mumble. It was Preston Pressmouse, the printer. "Mr. Stilton! The press has broken down! We can't print anymore!" he shrieked in my ear. "The Rodent's Gazette won't be ready for tomorrow!" I jumped out of bed. Now I was wide awake. What a nightmare! If the paper didn't come out, rodents might decide to read

another paper. They might like it better than The Rodent's Gazette. The Gazette would be DOOMED! I couldn't let that happen. I ran breathlessly to the pressroom. Rancid rat hairs! Preston was right. The machines were totally jammed! I called the technician, TERRY TECHRAT, but he was busy working on another broken printing press. I called his partner, but he was away on vacation. I called the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. But no one was home. Doesn't any mouse believe in a good night's sleep anymore?

I left the pressroom feeling beat. I decided to take the elevator to my office to think. I sat behind my desk, staring into space. My gaze fell on a stone sculpture of my grandfather WILLIAM SHORTPAWS, aka CHEAP MOUSE WILLY. He started the paper in his garage so many years ago. He had worked long and hard to make The Rodent's Gazette a success. I couldn't let him down now. But what could I do? I had to find some mouse who could fix a broken printing press.

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Just then, I had an IDEA. I remembered an old printing technician from my grandfather's time. He had retired several years ago. His name was FURDRICK FIX IT. He was an incredibly sweet old mouse. Always squeaking a happy tune while he worked. Always lending a helping paw. I sent him a special cheese-scented holiday card every year. And now and then, I would give him a call to squeak about the old days. Now I called him in a panic. I told him about the broken printing press. "Could you come and look at it?" I begged Furdrick. "You are my last hope!"

Five minutes later, Furdrick arrived. He practically skipped into the PRESSROOM. I could tell he was thrilled to be there. After all, he had worked at The Rodent's Gazette for forty years. It was like his second home. He stooped over the broken machine. He tapped his cane on one side of the press, then the other. "Ah, yes, the old RAT-PRINT 500," he announced. "This is the same machine I printed on years ago! I remember it well!" I nodded. "That's right, Furdrick," I agreed. "It is the same old press. Can you fix it?" Furdrick threw me a sly grin. "Does a mouse eat cheese on Thanksgiving?" he asked. I figured that meant yes. The old mouse put his paw around my shoulder. "My dear Geronimo," he began, "I know a trick to get